Page 50 of Secret Baby for my Off-Limits Fiancé

I see it, the quick flicker of heat in her eyes before she looks away, pretending like that didn’t just affect her as much as it did me.

Damn it, Layla. We’re playing a dangerous game.

“You ready for tonight?” I go for breaking the thick tension between us.

She sighs dramatically. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Relax. My family is actually pretty great. You’ll get along with them just fine.”

She side-eyes me. “Right. The notorious Marchettis. I’ll take your word for it.”

I chuckle. “We just need to put on a good show. Just make it sound like you’re crazy in love with me.”

Layla lets out a snort. “It might be easier to prove that the Earth is flat.”

I grin. “Then you’d better brush up on those acting skills, baby. We’ve got a point to prove.”

At the word baby, she blushes slightly, barely noticeable, but I catch it.

And it damn near wrecks me.

Before I can tease her about it, we arrive at my father’s estate.

I step out of the sleek black car, reaching for Layla’s hand as we walk up the stone path leading to my father’s newly built home.

The moment our fingers brush, a slow burn travels up my arm.

This woman is going to ruin me.

Layla looks in awe, the countryside stretches endlessly around us, rolling green hills kissed by the last golden rays of the evening sun. The air smells of fresh earth and lavender, the kind of scent that settles deep in my lungs, pulling me back to childhood summers in Tuscany, barefoot, wild, running through the vineyards without a care in the world.

But this house, this is something new.

Every time I visit, it still takes me by surprise. My father spent years designing it with Quinn, blending the old-world charm of Italian architecture with modern luxury. A fresh start, a new chapter, one that, somehow, feels right.

I push open the heavy wooden doors, and the grand foyer unfolds before us, bathed in the soft glow of a chandelier that hangs like an art piece from the vaulted ceiling. The polished marble floors gleam, catching the flickering light of candles lining the curved staircase. The walls are adorned with rich, earth-toned frescoes, a tribute to tradition, while sleek glass railings and contemporary furniture strike a perfect balance between past and present.

Beside me, Layla inhales sharply.

"Wow." Her voice is barely above a whisper.

When I turn, I catch the awe in her eyes as she takes it all in, the intricate carvings in the stone archways, the warmth of the wooden beams stretching across the high ceiling.

"You like it?" I already know the answer, but I want to hear it anyway.

She turns to me, shaking her head slightly, like words aren’t enough.

"Valentino, this is… breathtaking. It’s not just a house. It feels like a story."

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. "That’s my father for you."

Pride settles in my chest as I lead her deeper inside.

My father spent years mourning my mother. And for a long time, I thought nothing could ever fill the void she left behind. But then came Quinn, fiery, unexpected, full of a kind of love that doesn’t erase the past but makes space for something new.

And that’s the thing about this house, it isn’t a replacement for the villa where I grew up. No, my father made sure my mom’s memory is still here, woven into the very bones of this place.

Her favorite flowers, lilies and roses, line the garden path outside. A grand piano sits untouched in the corner of the living room, gleaming, just like she used to keep hers. And in the hallway beyond the foyer, beneath the warm glow of wall sconces, hangs a portrait of her, painted in soft oils, her expression serene, as if she’s still watching over all of this.

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